No one really liked the Yan family.
It wasn't an active hatred—more like a passive, inherited rejection.
The people of Qinghe Village knew who Yan Luofei's father was: an ordinary man with no sect background, no connections, no significant cultivation. They also knew her mother came from an "unclear" lineage, a polite way of saying troubled.
And their daughter, Yan Luofei, was a symbol of all that.
That day, the sect's examination hall was packed with people. The children stood in order, their eyes shining with hope. The sect elders sat at the top, their white robes spotless and heavy with authority.
The talent testing stone was placed in the center, cold and lifeless.
Yan Luofei stepped forward when her name was called.
She was thin, slightly taller than others her age, with black eyes that were too calm. When her palm touched the stone, there was no light. No vibration. No reaction.
Silence.
Then laughter.
A senior disciple covered his mouth, feigning politeness. The second elder of the sect let out a long sigh, as if he had predicted this outcome from the start.
"As I suspected," he said.
"That family's blood is indeed incompatible with the path of cultivation."
Several elders in the audience nodded. They said nothing, but their expressions made it clear: this child was wasting time.
Yan Luofei withdrew her hand. She didn't bow, she didn't argue, she simply stood there, awaiting the verdict she had long known.
"You've been rejected," the elder continued.
"And you'd better stop dreaming. This path isn't for someone like you."
Those words should have been enough. But the world rarely settles on enough.
"Ah, isn't this the child of the Yan family?" someone whispered loudly.
"I heard her father had once applied for entry into the sect years ago."
"Right," said another.
"Rejected too. It seems failure is contagious."
A chuckle spread. Not loud, not harsh—that's precisely what made it all the more piercing.
Yan Luofei walked out of the hall without looking back. She heard people talking behind her, as if she were no longer there.
Outside, her mother waited.
She smiled when she saw her child, though her eyes were full of worry.
"How is it?"
Yan Luofei opened her mouth, then closed it again. She shook her head slowly.
Her mother nodded, as if expecting it.
"It's okay," she said quickly, too quickly.
"We can—"
"You should be grateful," interrupted a passing sect disciple.
"This sect doesn't accept trash."
Her mother froze.
Yan Luofei's father came running from the field. He looked at his wife's expression, then at the disciple's face. His hands clenched.
"I just wanted a chance," her father said in a low voice.
"My child is innocent—"
"That's precisely why," the disciple smiled faintly.
"He inherited everything from you."
Several villagers stopped walking. They watched, no one stepping forward, no one defending.
Yan Luofei watched everything from the side. Her father's face tensed. His mother's eyes were beginning to fill with tears. The gazes of those who pretended not to be involved.
In that moment, he understood something simple and cruel: The world doesn't need to hate you to destroy you. It just needs to not deem you worthy.
He tugged at his mother's arm.
"Let's go home," he said softly.
That night, the village remained quiet. No one knew that the sect's decision today was the beginning of their own destruction.
And no one realized that the boy they considered a failure… had just given up hope in the world.
Yan Luofei walked home without looking back.
Her steps were steady, not hurried, nor heavy. From the outside, she looked like a child accustomed to failure. But inside, something was neatly forming—not anger, not sadness, but remembrance.
She recalled the faces in the hall earlier.
The second elder of the sect who sighed before speaking. The senior disciple who laughed half-stifled. The villagers who nodded, not in agreement, but because it was the safest course of action.
This wasn't a personal rejection, she thought. This was a selection of utility.
He had read in an old scroll in the village storeroom about how the cult thrived: they didn't rescue the weak, but instead invested resources in those most likely to yield returns.
Morals were merely cosmetic.
If that were the case, then there was nothing wrong with the system.
The conclusion was cold, but honest.
Her mother walked beside her, too silent. Her father was a few steps ahead, his shoulders tense, his breath hitched. Yan Luofei didn't try to comfort them. She knew empty words only delayed the pain.
When she arrived home, her father sat silently. Her mother prepared dinner with trembling hands. Yan Luofei sat in a corner, observing the cracked floorboards, the decaying walls.
This house had no strategic value, she thought.
Too weak to defend, too poor to care about.
She didn't blame anyone. Not even the sects; this world wasn't evil. It was efficient.
The night wore on. Her mother finally said, "Luofei… you don't need to mind their words."
Yan Luofei nodded.
"I know."
That answer silenced her mother. She looked at her daughter as if seeking confirmation, then lowered her head again.
After dinner, Yan Luofei went to her room. She closed the door, lit a small oil lamp, and sat on the floor.
She opened her palms.
There was no light. No sensation. The touchstone hadn't lied.
But she didn't feel empty.
She closed her eyes and regulated her breathing, imitating the basic techniques she'd seen from afar. Breathing in. Breathing out. No energy flow, no resonance.
It means I'm incompatible with their methods and powers, she concluded.
Yan Luofei didn't cry that night. Nor did she promise herself revenge. Such a promise was too emotional, too unstable.
Instead, she made small decisions.
First: stop hoping for recognition.
Second: stop measuring one's worth by the sect's standards.
Third: observe the world more carefully before acting.
She realized something few her age realized: a strong person isn't just one who possesses power, but one who understands the structure within which that power operates.
The next few days, she returned to her old routine. Helping her father in the fields. Drawing water from the river. Listening to village gossip.
People acted as if nothing had happened. That was the most common form of rejection: moving on with life without considering you relevant. Yan Luofei kept it all in.
She kept the names of the sect disciples who had insulted her father. She kept the sect's patrol times. She kept the fact that this village was too close to the wild energy path—close enough to exploit, far enough to ignore. She didn't know what the information would be used for.
One afternoon, her father said,
"I'm going to the small town tomorrow. I'll try to talk to the branch sect again."
Her mother stiffened. "For what?"
Her father smiled stiffly. "For our children's future."
Yan Luofei stopped peeling vegetables. She stared at her father for a long moment, then said, "They won't change."
Her father fell silent. "I know. But the world leaves no other choice."
Yan Luofei thought about those words all night.
The world leaves no other choice.
If that were true, then the fault wasn't her father's decision—it was the world itself.
The night before her father left, Yan Luofei sat alone outside the house. The wind carried the scent of wet earth and grass. The sky was clear, full of stars, as if nothing were wrong with this life.
She looked up and asked herself, not as a prayer, but as a hypothesis test:
If I die tonight, will the world change?
The answer came quickly and honestly.
No.
The village will still stand. The sect will still reject the weak. The people will still choose silence.
The conclusion was comforting.
Because if her existence meant nothing to the world…
then she owed it nothing.
In the distance, the wind rustled strangely, like something moving beneath reality. Yan Luofei felt a brief sensation—not of power, but of concern.
She opened her eyes.
There was nothing.
But for the first time since that rejection, she felt certain of one thing: Her path may not be recognized. But it exists.
And one day, the world will be forced to see it—not because she asked, but because it has no other choice.
To be continued...